


How You Remind Me

by williamastankova



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sort of), Bearded Bucky Barnes, Bearded Steve Rogers, Beards (Facial Hair), Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dancing, Drawing, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, For a bit lol - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Fugitives, Getting Together, Grinding, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Songfic, Top Steve Rogers, Topping from the Bottom, beard burn kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Steve and Bucky are on the run from the other Avengers, declared fugitives. In the mean time, Steve tries to help Bucky get back to his orignial self, or as close as he can get. Meanwhile, something ancient, long-awaited, and unspoken seems to be blossoming between them.(set during Civil War)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 141





	How You Remind Me

**Author's Note:**

> written the day before my birthday, edited on my birthday, posted today. now here we are! hope you enjoy :)

This is the hardest thing Steve's ever had to do.

Even compared to everything he's been through - losing his ma and pa, having to crash that plane into the ocean, and the list unfortunately goes on - this is sincerely the single worst, most demanding task he's been so determined to complete in his lifetime. 

Bucky, his best friend, had been lost for God knows how long. He'd last seen him back in the forties, a good seventy years ago now, and he'd only just started to come to terms with the fact that he'd failed him. For years, he'd pondered, tortured himself, wondering if he'd just been a little faster, a little less afraid, would Bucky have lived?

As he finally learns to stop blaming himself for everything, it all comes crumbling down around him. He's with Sam and Nat, on the fateful bridge when he sees him. He can't believe his eyes: there, in broad daylight, with long hair and wrapped up in the colour of night, stands Bucky, recognisable.

All of his breath leaves him then. What's worse is when he has to fight Bucky - oh, Lord, the man doesn't even know himself anymore. Steve wants to stop it all, to convince him that they're friends, to have Bucky tell him what happened after the fall. But he can't.

They have more run-ins after that. The Winter Soldier, Bucky's new alias, is so very different to the friend Steve had once known, it's impossible to look at this super-soldier, dancing as he destroys everything and everyone in his path, and connect the two characters. Bucky - his Bucky - was kind, patient, charming. This person... this void of an individual is apathetic, calculated, homicidal.

It takes the longest time for him to wrap his head around it. As opposed to befriending Bucky, he's now got to keep one eye open to make sure he doesn't kill him in his sleep. It's certainly a shift, to say the least; it feels like earth's plates have moved irreparably, and he no longer has control over his own life.

It's on the burning ship that everything's turned on its head for the hundredth time. This time, he thinks he's coming to accept that Bucky as he once knew him is gone, lost to time, and there's only this version of him left. Maybe he was blinded by naivety: maybe Bucky did die on that train back in the forties, not literally but spiritually, but then again he thinks maybe not.

Bucky saves him. It's not an action performed by the Winter Soldier, not a decision that sadist has even a vote in. Bucky kicks him out of his head, even just for the shortest time, and dives straight into the water after Steve. He rescues him, drags him to shore, leaves him spluttering and in complete disbelief for the next year.

They meet again, and it's obvious something's different this time. No longer does Bucky rush him, trying to get the advantage, wanting him dead with every fibre of his being. This time, there's a softness to him. No, not a softness, a timidness. A guilt.

Bucky is fragile now. He's sheepish as he tries to pretend he doesn't know Steve, but he doesn't do a very good job at convincing him at all. In fact, half the time it seems like he's talking to himself, and by the time they start running, fighting their way out of the building, Steve is ready to die with and for Bucky once again, like he was back in Brooklyn. Like he always secretly has been.

The next few months are hard. They're basically fugitives, with Steve switching from the good guys to one of the most wanted men in America in the blink of an eye. Bucky apologises to him every single day. It's not always verbal; Steve can see from the glazed look in his friend's eyes as he scans their run-down, make-shift apartment that he feels this is all his fault - can see him fighting to remain himself most all of the time.

When he bears witness to these moments, Steve springs into action. He always clears his throat, piping up about something lighter, or tells Bucky they should do something fun. Whatever they can, without being caught by the swarms of agents that're constantly on the look-out for them. He's willing to risk it all if it means Bucky'll stop hating himself, even just for an hour or so.

The man is a straight-up mess. There's no use in denying it and, though he vows he'll never admit it to Bucky's face, he fears he'll never be the same man again. Not quite, anyway: his charm is gone, leaving only stilted conversation and general awkwardness in its wake.

He tells himself he's going to try everything he can to get Bucky back to himself, no matter what that entails. Making a mental plan, he supposes it's best to start with something small, basic yet essential, teaching Bucky how to be who he used to be - about how they used to be - starting at the foundations. It doesn't matter - he doesn't mind; they've got all the time in the world, as far as he's concerned.

-

The first thing he wants to do is get Bucky back into his old hobbies. It's been so very long, he has to contemplate what he and Bucky actually used to do; they spent so much time together, but it's all gone fuzzy in Steve's mind now. The first and only thing to come to his mind is drawing, so he invests in some paper and pencils and proposes the idea to Bucky one afternoon.

The man's reaction is nothing short of going into cardiac arrest. His blue eyes go wide, lips parting as though he to the kitchen and accepts his seat at the table.

The place, to put it succinctly, is a shit-hole. Steve doesn't think he's seen a place so badly maintained since the war, and even then people at least made an effort to decorate bombed-out locations. Their kitchen has plaster ripping from the walls, wires hanging down from everywhere, and Steve's not even sure what half of them do. They might not be connected to anything, for all he knows. Best not to touch.

Still, it's a roof over their heads for the night. They've come too close to being caught before, so they try to keep their few belongings in one area, just in case they need to make a quick get-away. Even if they don't get found, Steve figures they'll move soon anyways, just for good measure.

"There you go," he speaks softly as he passes Bucky a pencil, sharp enough but not too sharp, not so Bucky could turn it on himself or Steve if something snaps. He offers a small smile, receiving nothing but a blank glance in return.

It's a slow start. To be fair, he hasn't done this in years, either, so he's a little rusty, too. He just glides his pencil across the page, creating a baseline for his sketch, feeling Bucky's eyes stare intently at his movements as he does so. He tries to remain focused.

A couple of minutes pass. It's silent, save for the ticking of the clock that never shows the right time. There's almost peace in the room, but when he casts his gaze from the paper to Bucky, he finds the man sat there, looking as though he might cry.

"Buck?" He calls, trying to keep his voice as calm as he can manage, though it's harder than it looks when he's seeing such a miserable sight. Bucky averts his eyes, looking at his paper again, though his pencil is still unmoving. "Hey, Buck? You wanna have a go?"

"Don't know how," Bucky's response comes late, and is barely mumbled. Steve winces at this, but persists with a friendly tone.

"I'll show you, yeah?" He offers, and when Bucky doesn't object he slowly begins to put his tools to the side and make his way over to Bucky, "How's that sound?"

Again, no response comes, but Bucky doesn't seem alarmed as Steve draws nearer. He crouches to be beside Bucky, not tucking in too closely to the man for fear of triggering something innate in him, a fight-never-flight response. He looks between his friend and the paper he's holding, clutching just a little too tightly.

"Alright," he says softly, then points to two spots on the paper, "Can you draw a line from here to here for me?"

Bucky does not move. Steve waits, knowing the man must have heard him and is probably just taking a time-out for his own sake. He keeps his eyes on Bucky, warm and non-judgemental.

In time, Bucky appears to come back to himself. He nods, as though only just having heard the request, then does as Steve had asked.

"Good! That's real good, Buck," he encourages, admiring the simple but impressive nonetheless line Bucky's drawn, "And what about adding a circle in here? Don't worry about getting it too perfect or anything..."

He continues to instruct Bucky like this until they finish the first image: a mere line-drawing of a sunflower, tall and spread, beautiful. Steve tries not to think into it too much, just compliments Bucky on how elegant the image looks, tells him he's gonna be a real good artist one day, if this is his first drawing. This makes the corners of Bucky's mouth tip upwards, just the littlest bit.

"You draw something now," Bucky urges, thrusting the paper and pencil in Steve's direction, admittedly making the man stumble a little, shocked at the sudden movement. He hates what he instantly thinks is happening; he should trust Bucky, shouldn't he?

"Aw, me?" Steve feigns shyness, accent turning to that of a Southern Belle. He knows Bucky probably doesn't remember how drawing is just about the only thing he's ever actually thought himself to be naturally quite good at, without serum or anything else. This realisation sends a pang of sadness rushing through him, as he begins to wonder what else Bucky's forgotten about him. "Well, alright. If you say so."

He graciously accepts the items and makes his way back to his own chair, then has an idea. Taking his seat, he tells Bucky to keep facing to the right, just as he had been doing. He feels inspired. Furrowing his brows, confused, Bucky obeys.

Steve tries to make it quick, drawing a basic outline for his portrait then adding some key features. He's forgotten to bring rubbers, but he doesn't mind too much. It's only meant to be a rough sketch, after all, and he hardly expects Bucky to be his largest critic.

Working faster and faster, he finishes within ten or so minutes, neglecting to add a couple of unnecessary finishing touches that he perhaps usually would, knowing Bucky must be growing bored by now. With a quick look to his friend, scanning his features, he finds almost the exact opposite of what he expects to find: there, face lit by the dim sunlight that manages to sneak past the blinds, Bucky waits patiently. He looks peaceful, listening to the birds he can't see outside.

"Here," he regretfully breaks into the quiet, making Bucky snap his head to face him, eyes dropping to the paper in Steve's outstretched hands. Bucky's face wells with some unnamed emotion, and his voice seems like it might quiver if Bucky speaks for a long time.

"Is that..." Bucky goes to ask, the words getting caught in his throat so he has to swallow and try again, "Is that me?"

Steve nods, smile spreading languidly across his lips. He stretches a little more forward, indicating that Bucky should take the paper into his hands, which he does. Staring down at the drawing, Bucky seems to study it for some time as though memorising it, like it's going to be snatched from his grasp and destroyed forever sooner rather than later.

"You can keep it, if you want," Steve shrugs, hoping to dispel any such misconceptions, all whilst trying to be deadly casual.

Bucky looks up at him like a child that's been told he's going to live in Disneyland for the rest of his days. His smile is visible, no longer hidden beneath layers of pretence. He speaks slowly, purposefully, as he speaks next.

"Thank you, Steve," he says, subtly clutching the image closer to his chest, "It's lovely."

-

They're relatively quick to clear up after all that, and Steve takes all the supplies to his room, putting them somewhere for safe-keeping. They return to normal then, going about everyday tasks, such as avoiding the police and cowering in fear of arrest and execution. 

Steve continues to think about what he could do next to help Bucky settle back into a life where nobody's trying to abuse his vulnerable state, nobody sawing off his arms or drugging him up, stealing every ounce of his distinguished identity. He has a few ideas, but disregards some, classing them as distasteful. Others he pushes to the back of his mind for another day - sometime in the future, maybe.

For now, he figures it's back to basics. And, he reasons, one of the most basic things is hygiene, which it seems Bucky has been uncertain about lately.

Since his return, Bucky's been reluctant to shower properly. Whenever Steve mentions it, he usually receives a groan as his answer, primitive and hardly helpful. He doesn't want to force the man to do anything, though, and for the most part it seems he does shower, albeit not too often and never to the highest standard.

He's not too sure how to bring it up without seeming like he's being purposefully rude. After all, he knows he wouldn't take too kindly if Nat or one of the others told him he was cleaning himself wrong, and that they could do it better.

It's one day, quiet as always, when he finally works up the courage to ask, and it comes out surprisingly better than he'd anticipated it would. 

"Hey, Buck?" He calls to his friend, who he knows in the next room laying down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He comes to stand at Bucky's door frame, watching the man who doesn't even seem present in his own body, "Want me to wash your hair?"

Okay, so it's not great. It's abrupt, completely out of the blue, but still it's far from 'you're an imbecile that can't shower properly, let me do it', which he takes as a win. Bucky's focus shifts from the apparently fascinating cracks on his ceiling to Steve, catching the man's eye and holding it for a short while.

Steve holds his breath until Bucky stands and begins to shuffle wordlessly towards the bathroom. He sighs, relief filling his lungs, and follows shortly behind. 

The bathroom is just about as bad as the rest of their place. Considering their heads are still on their shoulders, though, he tries his best not to complain, instead focusing on manoeuvring himself around Bucky so as to give himself best access to the running water and his friend's hair.

He settles for crouching down to Bucky's left, while the man sits cross-legged on the floor. He leans his head back, dangling his hair over the side of the once-white tub, absently waiting for Steve to make the next move.

Steve leans over to turn the shower-head on, letting the water run away from Bucky's head before it finally - after much waiting and adjusting the temperature dial - runs tepid. He doesn't want to shock Bucky in any way, makes sure all is right before he tips the head towards the other man's dark head of hair that's painting the inside of the bath.

At first, he does his best with what he's got, working with their set-up and such, but eventually he gives in and just asks, "Would you be able to take your shirt off? It's gonna get soaking wet if I wash it like this."

He explains this with a level tone, trying not to come off as upset or anything else like that. It really is just awkward, what with their clothing choices already being limited, and Bucky wearing what Steve knows for a fact is his last clean shirt. It's red, almost maroon, and it suits him. Steve really doesn't want to ruin it.

Without any further prompting, not asking a single question, Bucky pinches the hem of his shirt and tugs it over his head, a little violent, until it's laying strewn across the floor, inside-out. Much better.

Steve gets to work without a second more of hesitation. There's some part of his mind that notes how strong Bucky looks, though it feels wrong to consciously acknowledge. It's no more than a fleeting thought of 'oh, well, that's new', a pair of raised eyebrows and shaking his head to clear his mind of such peculiar, perplexing thoughts.

He carefully shampoos Bucky's hair, minding not to get any in his eyes, then washes it out in favour of putting conditioner in it. He lets this sit for a while, making idle conversation with Bucky (who's somewhere between responsive and comatosed, like he's not really hearing him at all) as they wait. In time, he washes out the conditioner, wringing Bucky's hair then telling the man to stand.

Once they're across from each other, he feels a little strange. Something is off - not quite wrong, but certainly not right. Bucky seems unafraid as he holds Steve's eye, not understanding why this intense interaction makes Steve squirm where he stands, tilting his head to the side in a 'what's wrong?' sort of way. Steve gives no response, deeming himself irrational and reaching for the single towel in their bathroom.

It's far too small for any normal-or-above-average human. He assumes it wasn't intended to be a body towel in the first place, but then again he doesn't have to worry about excessive nudity now. Reaching around Bucky's neck, he drapes the material over his friend's head, not letting it slip over his eyes and drown him in inescapable darkness. He ruffles Bucky's hair slightly, never having dried somebody else off before, eliciting a bright smile from the man.

"That feels funny," Bucky tells him, voice sounding amused, making Steve smirk back. 

He gives no verbal response, just continues to repeat this action until he figures Bucky's hair is as dry as it's going to get; the air can do the rest. Slipping the item from Bucky's head, retrieving it from behind the man's back and folding it, leaving it on the radiator that doesn't work.

They stand there for a moment, just looking. Steve might be a hopeless fool, but he's convinced there's a glint of recognition in Bucky's eyes, like he remembers everything for just a split second, but then it's gone. He admires his work, immediately noticing how Bucky's hair is shining in a way it hasn't done since before his resurrection, and beams at his friend.

"Looking good, Barnes," he teases, nudging Bucky on the shoulder, making the man's smile flourish on his handsome features.

"Not so bad yourself, Rogers," Bucky responds, and there it is again. Twice in under two minutes, the old Bucky has come back to him? He must be dreaming. 

His gaze lingers for too long, and when he realises this he has to fight off the urge to flush a harsh red colour, spreading from his face all the way down to his toes. He makes a quick excuse, sparing Bucky a smaller smile this time, and leaves the bathroom, letting Bucky check himself out in the mirror.

-

A few days later, Steve's clearing out the spoiled food (which, at this point, is basically all of it) in the fridge when he hears it. It's faint, distant, easy to miss if you're not listening hard enough, but considering the rest of their apartment is bathed in deadly quiet, it's next to impossible for him not to hear it.

He stops dead in his tracks, still holding a rotten bag of cheese, or at least that's what he thinks it used to be. His brow knits together, not sure what he's hearing at first, but then his face breaks into the largest smile of his entire life. Bucky is _singing_.

Okay, strictly speaking it isn't _singing_ , but rather is more of a hum. He realises this as he approaches, locating the source of the sound in their living room, tuning into a song he doesn't recognise, probably because it was released after his time - well, between his two times. It's all part of a very complex timeline.

Regardless, whatever the song is called, Bucky is standing there, listening intently to it, picking up the tune and imitating it. It's only rough, a subtle sound, but as the seconds pass he grows in confidence, until Steve watches as he then starts to tap his foot.

It's crazy. It's like being back as their old selves again. Steve watching, mesmerised, as Bucky flaunts his moves to attract whatever girl he'd undoubtedly be going home with that evening. He's half expecting Bucky to turn around, flash him his winning smile, to jokingly invite Steve to teach him how to dance properly - not like he usually does, flailing and injuring his partner.

He doesn't, though. His own moves don't go past this tapping, and it makes Steve's heart lurch to see. There's something so tragic in seeing part of Bucky slip out, though not being able to conquer his newfound traumatised self. He clears his throat and approaches.

"Hey," he calls, letting Bucky know he's coming closer to save himself the hassle of being choked half to death because he's taken Bucky by surprise. The other man just looks over his shoulder, welcoming Steve with a warm expression that even stretches to his eyes.

"Hi," Bucky responds, a little timid, and the movement of his foot slows, but doesn't stop. "What's up?"

Steve smirks, knowing Bucky is well aware he's been caught. Not wanting to deter his friend, he nods to the radio and asks, "What're you listening to?"

"Dunno," Bucky confesses, looking sheepish, "It was just on."

"It's good," Steve affirms, nodding, beginning to tap his own feet in time with the song, "You like it?"

"Mhm," Bucky hums as his answer, then falling quiet once more. He looks pensive, lost deep in thought for the longest time, then he suddenly pipes back up, turning to face Steve fully as the latter continues to jiggle his foot, "Steve, did we used to... did we dance?"

Steve's heart rate increases significantly at this. Does Bucky remember? He'd always sort of figured those memories were gone, left only in his own collection, that Bucky would never be able to recall those early years ever again. Now, though, it seems like that might not be exactly the case.

"Yeah, Buck," he says, unintentionally whispering the words, "Yeah, we did. You were a damn good dancer, too."

Bucky's ears visibly perk up, and his eyes brighten. "Really?"

"Really," Steve confirms, then doesn't let himself overthink anything as he stretches out his hand for Bucky to take, "You wanna dance?"

Bucky looks like he considers it for a moment, then his eyes fall to stare at his feet. He looks sad as he states, "Can't. I dunno how to, Steve. Forgot."

The abundance one-syllable words are killing Steve. He's got to do something about this melancholy, so he forces himself to sound bright as a summer's day as he cheerfully tells Bucky, "Well, I'll teach you, then!"

Bucky's gaze returns to his, and he sucks in a sharp breath before deciding 'what the hell' and planting his hand in Steve's. It's like electricity hits them, a bolt of lightning that must have been summoned by Thor Odinson himself, when their skin connects, and Steve feels his feet begin to dance on their own. 

_'C'mon baby and rescue me_   
_Cause I need ya need ya by my side_   
_Can't you see that I'm lonely?'_

The woman's voice, perfectly suited to the rhythm, continues as they begins to spin. It's amateur at best, considering Bucky's talent for dancing has been wiped and Steve's never been a good dancer, ever. It doesn't matter, though, as they move in time with each other, crashing together more than once, beginning to chuckle, which then evolves into uncontrollable laughter.

They whirl, as though caught in a natural disaster, and at the chorus, Bucky's bravery builds to a point that he dares to try and twirl Steve. Though he respects the effort, Steve sort of wishes Bucky hadn't done this, because the valiant attempt ends with him smacking straight into Bucky's underarm, unable to duck quickly enough to fit under the shorter man's limb. He almost topples over, but is stopped by Bucky grasping at his shoulders.

"Oh, God, Steve," Bucky manages to say between childlike giggles, promptly sliding his hands from Steve's shoulders up to cup his neck, holding him in place as he inspects the other man's face closely, making sure his nose isn't bleeding after such an incident. "Y'alright?"

"Yeah," Steve nods, checking he can't feel any blood preparing to drip down and out of his nose, which he thankfully can't. He stops wincing, peeling his eyes open to look straight at Bucky, whose previously carefree features have been swamped by an expression of remorse. "Buck, really, I'm fine. It was just an accident."

Trying not to sound too much like a scolding mother, he forces a smile onto his face, even though it hurts his currently tender features to do so. Still, Bucky doesn't stop looking at him like _that_ , and for God's sake, if the man doesn't stop this self-loathing...

Steve loses this train of thought as the staring continues. Part of him realises, regrettably, that they're suddenly standing awfully close. Or was Bucky this close before, too? Had he just not noticed? He wasn't sure how he could have missed it, given that the man was in such close proximity to him he could see the flecks of grey in his eyes, could count the fairy-dust spreading of freckles on the bridge of his nose, looking extra dark on the man's olive skin tone.

This was weird. He was making things weird, and he knew it. Coughing, he forces himself to take a step back, shaking Bucky's arms off of him casually, making them drop limply to the man's sides. Whatever spell they'd been under previously breaks, and they go back to being themselves.

"Right, well," he says, "I'd better get back to clearing the fridge."

The song begins to fade out, the radio host talking over the ending of the tune, so the lyrics are thankfully lost in the sudden barrage of noise. Bucky just nods, and smiles softly as he turns back to face the radio, foot tapping once more, like Steve had never even been there at all.

-

Not much new happens after that. If he's honest with himself, Steve's more than a little caught up in a spiral of self-doubting thoughts, wondering if he's doing something wrong, thinking he's the perpetrator that's stealing Bucky's hope for future happiness. Maybe it's a little melodramatic, but he figures it's best to just keep a respectable distance, just in case.

That being said, he's not _unfriendly_. He still engages with Bucky, chats to him, tries his best to draw him out of his shell, it's just that he sets a few unspoken boundaries. First off, he's not allowed to touch Bucky in any way that might be considered flirty or intimate - actually, he's cut himself off from any and all contact, after a particular brushing-away-stray-hair incident a few nights ago that had ended in caught breath and tipping too close for comfort.

Bucky seems to be feeling better. Obviously he hasn't miraculously improved over the space of a week, but it's in the small things that Steve notices the change most. For example, Bucky doesn't avoid his eye so much any more, and he's started to speak louder in general. These are all good signs, in Steve's book, that signal Bucky's recovery.

He's up late one night drawing, his passion for the art reignited by his and Bucky's activity about ten days ago now, when the floorboards creak. Immediately he stops, resisting the urge to throw his pencil down and rush into fight mode. His whole body tenses.

"Steve?" Bucky calls from out in the hallway, stepping forward so his face is illuminated by the dim desk lamp Steve's using to draw with.

"Oh, Buck," he chuckles, laugh all breathy and not even trying to disguise his relief, "You scared me then, jerk. What's up, anyways? Did you need something?"

Twiddling his pencil in his fingers, he watches as Bucky's nervousness returns to his face, trepidation radiating from every motion of his body, and Steve just knows something's bothering him. He doesn't want to press anything, but he sincerely hopes Bucky comes out with it without him having to pry the truth out of him.

"I, uh, was just..." Bucky begins, then sighs and begins to walk forward. As he nears the only light source in the room, more of his face is revealed to Steve: he looks tired - well, more tired than he perpetually does these days - and yet like he could dart off at the smallest of actions. Steve tries his best not to alarm the man, merely waiting patiently for him to arrive, standing right before Steve.

"Mhm?" Steve prompts once more, implying the question without actually reiterating it. He's sat down still, looking up at Bucky, who stands staring down at him.

Bucky's lips part like he's going to speak, but then they close again. His eyes narrow only slightly, like he's surveying something, then he moves. His hands creep from his sides, seemingly unsure of themselves at first, then finally setting on their path, straight to Steve's face, using the leverage he has on his jaw to tip his face upwards.

At first, Steve says nothing. He tries to reason in his own head that maybe Bucky just needs this, maybe it's one of those nights again when he needs contact. Maybe it isn't like _that_ , but he can only lie to himself for so long. As soon as Bucky begins to dip his head, eyes remaining attached to Steve's as he does so, he forces himself to address the elephant in the room.

"What are you doing?" He asks, though he speaks as softly as a ghost might do, like he's trying not to break Bucky with his words.

"Kissing you," Bucky explains plainly, his own voice low and gruff, an aspect of certainty and resolution to it that sends chills down Steve's spine. Bucky's eyes drop to his lips before he speaks again, this time enquiring, "Is that okay?"

Steve doesn't know how to respond. He knows how he _wants_ to respond, but that might just be some under-evolved, animalistic part of him, running purely on desire. He can't bring himself to say no, either, though, because there's the overwhelming sense that, even though this is wrong, it feels so goddamn right.

And so he says nothing. It's a terrible compromise, he acknowledges, but it's all he has left. He's not a manipulator, but he's also never been a liar. Why would he start now?

The world stops as he waits for Bucky to decide what he's going to do. His warm breath hits Steve's lips, feeling like the promise of a warm summer's day in the winter of their crappy apartment. He tries to keep his eyes on Bucky's, watching the desire linger there, brimming and overflowing, but at the last second his gaze tears away, just having to look at Bucky's mouth. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say, but if death feels how Bucky's lips feel, he doesn't think he's afraid to die after all.

In an instant, their lips are connected. It's hardly the most passionate thing he's ever felt: the kiss borders more on platonic than anything else, but it's still something. It's everything, actually, which is the revelation that comes crushing down on him like at ton of bricks, weighing down on him like a blessed nightmare.

Bucky's lips are chapped. His face is too sharp, his kiss too tense, the metal hand on Steve's face clutching at his jaw just a little too tightly to be enjoyable, but it's perfect. This is real, he realises; it's not a movie-kiss like he shared with Peggy, nor like kissing a prematurely lost lover as it was with Sharon. This is Bucky, right here right now, and it's him, Steve, too.

This doesn't feel real. They don't move, just continue to kiss hard, square on the mouth. Again, Steve thinks how this isn't what they show in the flicks. The guy always kisses the gal just right, moves his lips against hers, slips his hand around her waist and presses her into him. Here, Bucky's kissing him almost like it's a chore, which should hurt except he knows Bucky wouldn't do this if he didn't want to.

Would he? 

Oh God, would he? Steve's mind comes back to him, makes him realise what he's doing - what he's letting happen - and before he can stop himself, he's dropped his pencil, grasping Bucky by the shoulders and shoving him rather abruptly backwards, ripping their lips apart.

It hurts. The force is too much, far too soon. What's worse is the look that comes over Bucky's face, like a kicked puppy, but he solemnly nods and takes a step back. 

"Sorry," is all he says, then he's turning away to leave back the way he came.

Steve considers rushing after him, telling him that no, he's sorry. He's the one in the wrong, that Bucky should never feel excess or inappropriate with him, but he doesn't. He's already made a fool out of them once tonight - better not make it a second.

-

They don't talk about it. Like an unwritten rule in their non-existent housemate guidebook, the matter doesn't come up again, committed to memory. Regret sinks in almost straight after he hears Bucky's bedroom door close, but the moment is gone.

A week later, they haven't mentioned it. Two weeks later, it's like it never happened in the first place, just some delightful horror conjured up by Steve's subconscious. They go along as they always have, living together, eating together, talking about surface-level issues. They never delve deeper than current world issues, most often those regarding the rest of the Avengers and their hunt for them.

Steve's surprised nobody's found them yet. It's been weeks, and there's no sign of anybody coming to arrest or kill them. Granted, they have been practically in isolation for the better part of their time here, only ever risking going out to pick up essentials, and even then they're disguised to the max. 

He wonders if they'll be able to stay here forever. It's unlikely, he thinks, but it'd sort of be nice. To live with Bucky for the rest of his days, though he's not sure how long that is exactly, sounds like his own little version of heaven. 

This must be hell, though, he thinks, because they haven't spoken - actually spoken, like best friends do - in weeks. He's going mad.

It has to be this that drives him to do it, daring and dangerous as it may be, because there's just no other explanation. One morning, after he's woken Bucky and gone to prepare their breakfast, he knocks once and slips inside Bucky's room, finding the man standing there, finishing up getting dressed for the day.

They aren't exactly trying very hard these days. After all, who do they have to impress but each other? Still, Steve honestly believes that Bucky, dressed as he is now, sweatpants and an Irish green shirt (that's actually been cleaned now that Steve's found a safe laundromat for them to use) looks the best that Bucky has ever looked in his life. 

When they were young, he used to envy Bucky. He was always the handsome one, the tall and broad one, yet nimble enough to dance with all the dames at the parties they went to. Steve was always the scrawny kid hiding in the background, only catching glimpses of Bucky's moves, wishing he could be like him some day. Even still, Bucky had always made time for him. No matter how attractive or lusted after he was, Bucky had always made time for Steve.

It was one of the reasons he... no, that's not it. He can't be so reckless in thinking such things, such ludicrous ideas can't be allowed to fill his head. Not when he was looking at Bucky now, stood in front of his crooked mirror, trying his best to get out his tee's creases.

"Sorry about that," Steve apologises, on auto-pilot. He still hasn't bought them an iron, too afraid they'd either leave it behind when they inevitably next have to evacuate or it'd get used as a weapon against them. He just doesn't feel like it's worth the risk right now.

"Don't be," Bucky tells him, switching from looking at himself in the mirror to staring at Steve. His beard is much fuller now, dark and absorbing half of his face. Steve's is in a similar state, verging on but not quite out of control just yet, what with the severe lack of razors in their apartment. He keeps telling himself he has to buy them, but a selfish part of him says he really quite likes Bucky with a beard, and doesn't want to see it gone.

They hold each other's gazes for a beat too long, and of course Steve is the first to break away. It's hardly like he wants to - quite the opposite, in fact - but that's not what he came in here to do.

He strolls around a bit, reaching Bucky's bed within three paces due to the limited size of the room, and gestures to it. "May I?"

Bucky signals something like 'go ahead', so Steve does. Planting himself on the end of Bucky's freshly-made bed, he forces himself to look back at the man, who he finds is already watching him, like a child waiting for a teacher's instructions.

"So," he begins, wanting to broach the topic at hand as quickly as possible but chickening out at the very last second, instead opting out for, "What's new with you?"

This elicits a noise from Bucky, something between a chuckle and an irritated sigh. It's short, then the man calls him out. "Why are you really here, Steve?"

Steve laughs nervously, not having expected for Bucky to be so forward with him. Well, okay, if he wants the truth...

"About the other week, when we kissed-" he can already hear himself about to ramble, so he tries to put a rein on it, succinctly stating, "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, and I'm sorry if I did."

"Steve, if you'll remember," Bucky turns away from him in favour of looking in the mirror once again, brushing aimlessly at the creases in his shirt over and over, "It was me that kissed you. You don't have to apologise for anything; if you didn't want me to do it, it's fine. I won't do it again."

"No!" Something inside of Steve lunges out at the idea, simply having to reject such a notion aloud, because he doesn't want Bucky to think that at all. "It's not like that, it's just... well, I felt like I was taking advantage of you. And I didn't want-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Steve, would you get over yourself?" Bucky's words are explosive as they erupt from deep inside of him, appearing to shock even him. He turns around slowly, breathing to calm himself down, and goes on, "What I mean is, you don't have to keep protecting me like that. I'm not totally broken, Steve; I know what I want when I want it. I'm not a kid."

This actually does take Steve by surprise. Is he really what Bucky wants? Why?

"Don't worry about it," Bucky finishes when Steve apparently takes too long to reply. He dismisses the conversation entirely, not waiting to hear what Steve opens his mouth to interject as he excuses himself, leaving the room promptly, muttering something about breakfast going cold.

Steve's left, sat alone, not quite sure what to do with himself.

-

After that, it feels like the apartment is always ice cold. Even when the summer sunlight seeps through, painting their kitchen with dazzling light, it feels like the dead of winter. It's impossible to win at this game, Steve thinks, and now he feels like he's lost on all accounts: not only has he lost Bucky as a potential lover, but their friendship has been stolen alongside it, too.

They don't speak - haven't spoken in a good five days. Every time he catches sight of Bucky, he sucks in a breath, like he's seen the Phantom of the Opera or something. Bucky turns from his best friend, with whom he laughs and jokes (and, just once, kisses), to a shadowy figure, looming in corners, most often retreating to his room where he spends the time lying on his bed. 

Steve calls himself a fool countless times. If only he had appreciated what he'd had when Bucky first kissed him, maybe he wouldn't be in this unbearably sticky situation right now. Of course Bucky was right, as he always was; Steve had just been too stupid to see it, until it was too late.

He tries to busy himself as much as he can, partaking in various activities he can find around the house. He tries not to jeopardise their safety by leaving the apartment too much, but sometimes - when the air inside too unbearably dense, thick with tension and words unspoken - he goes for walks.

Most nights, he does this. He finds it's most secure then, considering he'd be more likely to spot a spy if they were about at three in the morning as opposed to milling about a busy park or shopping mall in the middle of the day. It gives him the best chance of escape.

Tonight, though, it's different. He wills himself a number of times to rise from his bed, throw on some form of disguise and go, but he just doesn't. It's like he's pinned to his bed by some unseen force, and he's learned to trust signs from the universe when they come, as rare and riddle-esque as they can be.

He hasn't checked the clock in a while, but he estimates it's around two or three when the creaking begins. As always, this out-of-the-ordinary sound puts him on high-alert, thinking somebody's finally found them and is coming to put an end to their little fugitive-holiday. 

When the footsteps come to stop right outside of his door is when he really begins to panic. He reaches under his bed and slips out his shield, readying it in his hand, slowly rising to his knees, then standing on his feet. The doorknob suddenly turns, and he's launching himself at the figure in the doorway before he can consider all possibilities.

"Hey!" The man outside calls, similarly thrown into fight mode, wrestling with Steve to grapple the surprising lethal weapon from him.

He puts up a good fight. He's a match for Steve and, half-way through, Steve begins to panic, thinking he might even be better than him. They stumble about the room in the darkness for a short while, tripping over Steve's randomly abandoned shoes and articles of clothing, finally walking back into the bed, making Steve's knees buckle, sending him flying onto his back on the bed. The shield slips from his grasp, landing somewhere loudly on the other side of the room.

So this is how it ends, he laments, in the dark with an anonymous assassin slitting my throat. 

If that's the case, he resigns, then he's going to have one final good shot at the guy, letting him know Captain America doesn't go down without at least a good fight. With this in mind, he quickly readies his right fist to whack the guy across the face, but his fist is soon caught in a vice-like grip.

The man's one hand keeps him there, pinned under his weight to the bed, while the other reaches over and pulls the string for Steve's bedside lamp. The glaring light fills the room, a terrible mustard colour splattering across all the walls, revealing the man's face.

"Bucky?" He asks incredulously, voice obviously distressed at this discovery, "What are you-"

"Well, I _was_ coming to talk to you," Bucky explains, then sarcastically nods his head to the side, pulling and tightening his lips in a 'plans change in the strangest of ways' sort of formation. He holds this expression for exactly three seconds, before he's laughing like a man gone mad, and Steve can't help but join him.

For a second, they almost feel normal. There's nothing more natural than smiling and having a good time with Bucky, he thinks, and takes some time to just appreciate that, after everything they've been through recently, they're still back here, where they always are, fixed. 

A switch flips inside of his mind, though, and suddenly he's forced to realise their position. In their fight, Bucky had had to clamber atop of Steve to stop his kicking, throwing, and punching. This means that now, even once the threat has dissolved, they're still atop one another, Bucky straddling his hips, dark strands of hair falling carelessly out of his bun, hanging like a corpse in Steve's face.

Their smiles freeze at exactly the same time. It feels like they have the same epiphany - that what's happening here is far from normal, best friend sort of stuff - and yet neither of them moves. Steve should question what's happening, but he doesn't. Doesn't want to. Never again.

Which is why, when Bucky begins to tip down - always the braver of the two - he decides to ignore his mind screaming at him, and just meet him half way. He does his best to push up into Bucky, trying to show him he's not alone in this desire anymore: Steve's given in, too.

It seems to take forever for their lips to touch. Steve's eyes are closed, so he can't see Bucky's expression. He can't quite decide if he wants too, because if he finds Bucky is afraid, he thinks he might just crumble beneath the man, turning to dust on the ancient sheets. If he's overcome with lust, Steve might lose all self-control and sense of boundaries altogether, which is the worst outcome.

Bucky feels warm - oh, Lord, so warm - as he leans over him. Their chests bump as Bucky ducks closer, and Steve's sure he can feel Bucky's heart racing in time with his own. This feels surreal, like a dream he's going to snap out of before it gets really good.

When their lips finally touch, Steve feels like he's been lit on fire. This feels like everything he's been waiting for, for the last seventy years, and he refuses to push it away again. He tangles his fingers into Bucky's hair, not pulling but resting there, gently scratching the man's scalp like rewarding a pet.

He lets Bucky lead. Even if his friend seems uncertain at first, doesn't remember exactly how kissing works, Steve takes whatever he's given, and loves every second of it. The feeling of Bucky's beard against his own, delightful pain, and Bucky's hands gaining confidence little by little, joining and slipping slyly up his chest to cup his bearded chin. Steve can't stop himself smiling.

This ruins the kiss, just a little, and he's about to curse himself before Bucky lets out a small sound. It's not quite a moan, but it's something of the sort. He feels the man move suddenly, grinding his hips forward against Steve's, breath turning to short, desperate pants.

Well. If there was one thing he had expected to happen then, this would not be within the top twenty on his list. Without an indication of forethought into doing so, Bucky's hands land on Steve's shoulders, pinning him down as he writhes atop of him, bringing their hips together with the inexperience yet eagerness of a virgin. Within seconds, Steve's right there with him.

It hadn't felt like one of _those_ kisses, but now that Bucky's granting him access to go further, he's glad to take it. In all honesty, Steve's never actually gone this far, either, except in his mind. Figuring they can learn together, he begins to move in sync with Bucky.

Hands slip from Bucky's face, gliding along his chest, uncertain where to stop. All too suddenly, he realises that he wants this - all of it, all of Bucky - and now he can have it, he freezes up. He's not sure where to start, not sure if Bucky wants him to take the lead or to settle in for the ride.

The latter works fine for Bucky, apparently, as the man shamelessly grinds away on top of Steve. His hair falls in front of his face, his handsome features bathed in the orange light of the bedside lamp, letting Steve observe as Bucky crumbles before his eyes.

It's a sight to behold. Bucky looks beautiful, all ruined already, fingers grasping tighter at Steve's shoulders as the latter finally makes up his mind and grips at Bucky's ass. He's wearing joggers still, but the force with which he brings their groins together definitely adds a spice to their already passionate encounter.

Steve gradually lets his fingers slip down, turning his attention to touching Bucky's thighs, which quickly divulges into a new obsession for him. He's never really considered the man's legs before, always too focused on his face and or broad torso, but now he realises how much he's been neglecting Bucky's thighs: thick, powerful as they enable the man to grind against him, hard. They deserve worship.

Bucky's lips suddenly capture his own. Steve's so focused on witnessing Bucky's facial expression change (determined to stay aware, mouth falling open in absolute euphoria, eyes squeezing shut to his own dismay) that he neglects to kiss back for a second, but Bucky persists until he does. This time, it's better. More advanced, having practised a few times now. His hands slide to cup Steve's bearded jaw.

The kiss is almost punishingly forceful. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd have guessed Bucky loathed him, what with how dramatically he crashed their lips together. Steve isn't an idiot, though; this is desperation. In context, this is pure, unadulterated want.

Bucky's lips move to Steve's cheek, roughly planting a crop circle of kisses there that Steve's certain he'll get lost in if he isn't careful. His hips are unfailing, frantic but purposeful, as he continues to grind, simultaneously dropping kisses down Steve's throat, nipping at his Adam's apple once he gets there. This makes Steve jump, hips jerking, feeling himself ready to finish.

"Bucky," he manages to croak, somewhere between pain and lust, "I'm almost- I'm going to..."

He doesn't have to finish. Bucky just nods, burying his face into the crook of Steve's neck, and moves his hand in one smooth motion to grasp Steve's dick through his pants. This makes Steve buck up, mouth forming an 'o' shape, then nuzzling involuntarily against Bucky, relishing in the way the man's beard burns against his face. He'll deal with those marks later.

His hands instantly go to Bucky's waist, slipping up the man's thin cotton t-shirt, grasping the flesh there. Lately, Bucky's been gaining weight. Not too much, but it's noticeable, and it's secretly been driving Steve fucking _crazy_. No longer is he the rail-thin test subject, nor the perfectly-sculpted, Greek god body type he's been in the past. Now, he's got some actual meat on his bones, and it looks - and, as he finds out now, feels - amazing.

Getting a firm grip on Bucky's waist, he decides it's time for him to take back some of the control. Sure, it's nice to feel Bucky wanting him so badly, using him for his own pleasure, but now it's Steve's chance to play - and play he does.

Relentlessly, he drives their hips together, eliciting uninhibited moans from deep within Bucky's chest. This only spurs him on, a chorus just for him, and he'll be damned if he disappoints now. Bucky's still in his neck, so the sound is slightly muffled, but Steve's pulse feels to full extent of it.

Before he even realises, he's sucking in a sharp breath and it's happening. He can't stop himself, can't withhold for even another second, because this is so overwhelming. The feeling of Bucky against him - not even just against him, but on top of him, a steady weight to remind him that his best friend is back, hopefully for good - is too much. He spills there, ruining his pants, never having cared less about anything so menial in the world. Not right now.

He finally still, his grip on Bucky's hips slackening. Trying to regain his breath, he neglects Bucky for a short while. The man is practically whining once Steve comes back to himself, head returning from the clouds; Bucky begins pressing a trail of wet kisses along his jawline, barely tangible through the thick hair of Steve's beard. Bucky's mind must be gone, too, then. Steve's got to help him out.

Shakingly, still riding out the shock of his orgasm, he tips Bucky over, reversing their roles, laying the man back down on the bed. This seems to displease Bucky, who tries his very best to remain clung onto Steve's neck, though the latter peels away from him, knowing Bucky won't be disappointed for very long.

As though he's done it a hundred times before, Steve crawls down the bed, coming to kneel before Bucky. Catching the man's eye, he reaches up and tugs his pants down, leaving him exposed to the night air. In the dim lighting of the bedroom (damn that light; Steve wants to see as much of Bucky as he can, as clearly as he can), he can see that Bucky's around average in length, but gurthier than he could have ever hoped.

Eager to please, he immediately licks a stripe up Bucky's cock, not breaking eye contact as he does so. Bucky's head lolls back, groaning as though he feels he's failed them both, but he's unable to return to an upright position. He's seen enough of Steve like this for now.

Smirking, Steve takes Bucky into hand, jacking his hard length once, then twice. He feels the pit of his stomach stirring, like he could go another round just from seeing this, but he focuses on the task at hand - quite literally. Once he's had his fun stroking Bucky, he wraps his lips around the man's dick, taking it as far as his inexperienced mouth will let him.

He's seen this online, because of course he has. The Internet has everything anyone could ever want, and there's plenty of porn to go around. He's watched the sort of stuff he's sure has his poor ma turning in her grave, weeping at the loss of her son's innocence, but at least it's coming in handy now. He swirls his tongue around Bucky, bobbing his head, making the man writhe and whine uncontrollably.

Steve's sure Bucky isn't going to last long. Just judging by how hard he already is, how ready to blow, and the intensity of his reactions, he thinks he's probably got about ten seconds before-

"Steve," Bucky moans out his name, and Steve's never heard a better prayer in his life than that, "Steve, please... I'm gonna-"

Again, it doesn't have to be said. Steve knows, has been anticipating it since he started sucking Bucky off, and so he merely smiles, popping off at the very last second, letting Bucky's come splatter onto his face in a rather undignified fashion. 

He watches in glee as Bucky twitches, head thrown back as far as the bed will let him, figure lit up by the table lamp. Perfection.

Steve takes a minute to witness Bucky's beauty, tries to register ever moment of this in case he never gets the chance to see it again, then comes to settle beside Bucky, lying shoulder-to-shoulder. He watches the man force his eyes open, finds them all watery like he might cry on the spot, and instinctively Steve reaches over to stroke a finger gently down Bucky's cheek, stopping with his thumb on his bottom lip.

Without hesitation, Bucky slips the digit into his mouth, sucking on it like it was his life's purpose to ruin Steve forever. He suppsesses a groan and withdraws.

"You're killing me, Buck," he sighs, voice more hoarse than he'd expected, and lets his gaze drift idly to the ceiling. 

Maybe this should be awkward. And, in a sense, it is. He's not sure where to go from here, not sure what he's allowed to do and when now, wants to ask but doesn't want to ruin the mood. Instead, he just lays there, the picture of disgrace with his damp pants and come on his face. Oh, shit, he'd forgotten all about that. 

As he goes to wipe it, however, another hand beats him to it. Bucky's propped himself up on his metal arm, and reaches out with the right to collect the come from Steve's cheek, gathering as much as he can on his finger. Making sure Steve's watching him, he puts the fingers into his mouth, lapping up the white substance as though it were nothing more than mere whipped cream.

Steve stops, dead still. Bucky's gone and done it, hasn't he? He's taken the first step to Steve's complete and utter destruction. After that, all he can do is watch as Bucky's fingers re-appear, sliding obscenely out of his mouth, and a smirk takes its place on his face.

"C'mere," Bucky orders lazily, saliva-covered hand taking Steve by the jaw and pulling him in for a kiss. Gross.

"Jesus, Buck," Steve musters, then intelligently murmurs against the other man's lips between kisses, "Kill me, you will. One of these days."

"If you're lucky," Bucky responds and, though Steve's not positive what he means by that, the bemused tone Bucky has as he says it makes him laugh anyway, feeling silly. 

Weird. After that, one might expect things to be different. In all the years they've known each other, they've never done anything like that - never even broached the subject. So why isn't it awkward now? Why are they still able to laugh and joke like best friends, like they haven't just climaxed after grinding against one another?

"I love you," Bucky whispers against his lips. And oh, he realises suddenly, that's why. That's exactly why nothing's strange; because nothing's really changed.

"I love you too," Steve confesses, voice low and secretive, like somebody's bugged their place and is listening in on this confession. It's not something he's ashamed of, per se, but for now, he likes the idea that this is theirs to share, and theirs alone. Likes to have Bucky all to himself like this.

This makes Bucky smile into their next kiss, ruining the moment slightly, but making it immeasurably better. Steve's quick to join him, peppering kisses on the man's lips, then expanding to the expanse of his beard, nose, and forehead. 

Something about this seems meant to be; it's like those kids back in Brooklyn, so distant a memory they're almost forgotten, were soulmates without ever knowing it. It took the loss to find the love, and in that Steve finds some semblance of poetry. He's never really been one for words, favouring drawing as opposed to writing, but he knows, deep down, that regardless of where they go next, they'll always find a place to call home in one another.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!! please let me know what you thought & send over any prompts you have to me at my tumblr, @samaraclegane! :)


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